10 Things I Hate About Pinky - Sandhya Menon Page 0,88

But she didn’t say anything. “And I respect that. But sometimes I get the feeling that…” Samir shook his head and cleared his throat. “Doesn’t matter. The thing is, I’m working on it. Okay? I’m working on not liking you anymore. It might just take me a while. So in the meantime, I’m probably gonna do more stuff like this.” He waved his hand toward the photograph and looked at her again. “Because I care about you.”

Pinky felt like her heart would burst. What he was offering her—it was unconditional caring, unconditional acceptance. He didn’t give a crap if his feelings weren’t returned. He just wanted to be there for her. No boyfriend she’d ever had had ever done anything close to this.

Suddenly Pinky felt very unsure. Dolly’s words echoed in her head: Who cares? Why was it so important to her that her identity be that of the free-spirited rebel? She looked down at the picture in her hand. It was pretty obvious that identities could end up changing and morphing. Her mom’s definitely had.

She looked back up at Samir. “I like that you… that you care. About me. So.” She wiped the sweat off her upper lip. Gross. “But, um… that’s all I have right now. I’m just—I’m…” She shrugged, feeling helpless. Why wasn’t that enough to say yes to dating him, to jumping into this thing with both feet? Because Pinky was a confused, swirling tempest of emotion, that’s why.

Samir smiled a little, as if he was thinking the same thing. “Okay. Do you want to look for some more butterfly habitat pictures?”

“Yeah.” Pinky got back on her knees and put her mom’s picture off to the side. “Yeah, let’s. I’ll think about all this later.”

* * *

The adults got back from the farmers’ market just as Samir and Pinky had finished trawling through the pictures and carried the best ones down to the living room to spread out on the coffee table. The one of Pinky’s mom was tucked into the back pocket of Pinky’s shorts, for later review. Dolly was still out; she’d texted that she’d be back in a half hour or so.

“Oh!” Pinky’s dad smiled down at the pictures. “What’s all this?” Her mom came up behind him, her canvas tote bag full of fresh produce. Pinky stared at her, trying to picture this mom in a denim miniskirt, with a protest sign clamped in her hands, and she just couldn’t do it. How was it even possible that the two were the same woman?

Her mom frowned lightly. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Um, nothing,” Pinky said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. To her dad, she said, “Oh, these are pictures of the butterfly habitat. We’re going to try to drum up support from the year-round residents to stop the developer from razing it,” Pinky explained.

“I thought we’d agreed that you were done with all that.” Her mom’s lips were set in a thin line.

“I didn’t agree to anything. As I remember, you told me to drop it and assumed I would fall into line like one of your peons at work. Well, news flash, Mom, I’m not a peon you pay. I’m your kid.”

Her mom glared at her. “Yes. I’m well aware of that.”

What did that mean? That she was regretful of that? Pinky rallied. “If you just listen to our plan, you’ll see that—”

Her mom sighed. “Pinky, I don’t have time for this. I have to dial in to a conference call in less than thirty minutes and I have a lot of research to do before that.” And with that, she clip-clopped away into the kitchen.

Pinky watched her go. Research. Her mom was always doing research. “Great.”

Her dad rubbed his face. “You know how she feels about protests and upsetting the balance of things, honey. She’s just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Worried for what?” Pinky asked, throwing her hands up in the air. “That I actually care about stuff? That I have principles?”

Her dad leaned over the coffee table and kissed her on the forehead, just as Meera Mausi and Abe came in, also carting bags of fruit and flowers. “Sorry. I’ll try to talk to her, okay?”

“Fine,” Pinky mumbled. She turned to Samir, who’d been sitting on the couch, watching. He mouthed “Sorry,” but that didn’t really help.

“My goodness, it’s hot out there.” Meera Mausi’s face was red, her hair stuck to her forehead. “I’m going to make some strawberry lemonade. Would you